Then what the thunder was all the row about? Father in the penitentiary? Mother scrubbing office buildings for a living? Brother a pickpocket? Sister gone to the bad? Tuberculosis? Pellagra? Not these latter, certainly.

And what had the others to do with her marrying him? Nothing, if he had a say so.

He dismissed them with a mental finger-snap, and put his faith again in destiny. She was his woman. He would win her in spite of herself.

Then on the fifth day came a little note. He was to be at the entrance to the Metropolitan Museum at one hour past high noon. He was there promptly. She descended from a bus at the corner and came to him rapidly.

“Inside,” she said, smiling but passing. He followed. Inside she fell back with him. Then came the quick, characteristic upward look. The gentian eyes were troubled.

“What have you been doing to yourself, little boy? Are you working too hard?”

“Scarcely that,” he laughed, “but possibly sleeping less than usual. And you?—but why ask! You are the same radiant, beautiful girl as when I first saw you.”

“Don’t, please. I detest flattery.”

“The word ‘beautiful’ doesn’t flatter you. But I think I understand. However, if I’m not to call you that, what am I to do for a name? Can’t you trust me with some little old name?”

“My uncle calls me Billee, when he finds me amiable; Bill, when he is displeased, and William, when he is out of all patience. You can take them all three. You’ll need them later.”

“Miss Billee will do for me.”

“Billee, or nothing, sir!”

“All right. Now then, Billee, listen to me. You’ve been through this place?”

“Dozens of times. I suggested it because at this hour it is not frequented by—because it is apt to be uncrowded, and I wanted to be alone with you. Forgive me if I shock you.”

“Forgive you! Come, I know a place where few people will be passing. It is both public and private.”

“All right. Let’s go sit down and tell glad stories of live kings.”

“Good paraphrase. Where did you learn the original?”

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